The undone and the divine
by AbortAbortAbort
Summary: Inspired by "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence and The Machine. Rated M for Gore and language. Sadstuck.


_"What are you looking for?"_  
_"..."_  
_"You want absolution."_  
_"No."_  
_"Liar."_  
_"I'm not lying. I don't need it. Not anymore."_  
_"But you did."_  
_"Everyone did."_  
_"Everyone does."_  
_"I'm tired of this."_

You look away disdainfully, their words burn still lingering. Of course you aren't lying. Of course their words aren't true. But they were. They were very true. The same words were spoken to you years ago. Only this time, they receive a different response. You suck a tight breath in and your hands tremble. It's time to finish this, before they notice you shaking. Within the blink of an eye, you turn your head to face them. Their icy cool is quickly broken, and they raise their arms to guard their face before you even advance. You've underestimated them, which may have been possibly the worst thing you could have done. You don't dare to hesitate any longer though, and swing your leg up and into their torso.

They gasp and hobble to the side, regaining their balance. "I'M HERE TO HELP YOU TAVROS." You flinch slightly, taken back by their sudden outburst. Not that these are to uncommon for them. Only at this time. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You beg your voice to speak for itself. Something you rarely do. But the words refuse to make an appearance. So you are left still facing them, your mouth open, their arms slowly raising, fingers outstretched. They scowl, baring their fangs more than necessary. You blink and snap back into action. You hastily bend over to grab for your lance, but your hands are clammy, and drop the handle a few times. You hear them scoff as you finally gain a good grip on your lance. You heave it upwards, and try to straighten yourself. But before you're fully standing tall, they raise their leg and roughly push you backwards. Your posture, lack of balance, and new legs can't take it. You instantly fall backwards, and with one arm still holding your lance, you try to catch yourself but your palm slips on the slick metal beneath you, and your head slams into the ground.

"Nnngh." You moan and lamely curl your self into a ball, dropping your lance and clutching your head with both hands. You take one hand away, blood lightly spotting it. You squint your eyes, and look up towards your attacker. They aren't even grinning. Something you'd surely expect from them. Instead a mixed look of pity and anger is written across their face. They sit down next to you. "Tavros. I'm ashamed of you." You hoist yourself up with one arm and stare forwards, looking at absolutely nothing. "You always are." They turn and study your face intensively, but you allow no emotion to show through. "Don't look like that." The sneer, and slap you across the face. You still don't move. "OKAY FUCK YOU." They screech. Still sitting, they grab you by the horn and repeatedly slam your head into the ground. You try to fight, you grab hold of their arm, but you can't pry them off.

They slam you into the ground one last time, and reach across you. You know what they're reaching for and you whimper as you try to push them aside. But your attempts prove useless, they grab hold of your lance and raise it above you. They elevate their self into a kneeling position and look down at you, and frown. "Now it's your turn. You weak, pathetic...gutterblood." They spit the last word, and before you can open your mouth, they plunge your lance into your stomach. You use all your might to try not to scream, but the pain overwhelms you. You let out an ear splitting scream, and gasp for breath. They laugh, and laugh, and laugh in your face. They then yank the lance out of you and your hands spasm uncontrollably. They reach down into your gaping torso, and you can their fingers twisting around and playing with your insides.

Pain numbs out all other feeling in your body and you hack and gasp for air. You claw at the floor, and they remove their hand, and stare at the chocolate colored blood coating it. They look down at you for half a second, and then get to work. They drag their hand across the floor, in every which way. Dipping their hand into your torso for more blood every once in a while. Once they decide they are finished, they drop their hand and close their eyes. A grin dances across their face, as they barely open their eyes to look at you. "Now it's your turn." they whisper. You can't say anything. They slowly stand up and walk away. Just like that. That's it, you're done. With the last, if any at all, of your strength, you slightly turn your head as much as your horns allow, and look at the brown streaked floor. Your eyes widen, and you let your head turn itself back to look up blankly at the ceiling.

And there you lay. Opened, and broken, and useless. Surrounded by our own blood, spelling out, "K8LL M8."


End file.
